


you could say that i'm sick on the inside (bet you don't know i like it that way)

by lostandlonelybirds (RUNNFROMTHEAK)



Series: Dick Rare Pair Challenge 2020 [4]
Category: Batman (Comics), DCU (Comics), Grayson (Comics)
Genre: Anal Sex, Angry Dick Grayson, Author Regrets Everything and Also Nothing, Because I am a contrary fuck, Blink and you miss it references to Tarantula and Mirage, Bloodplay, Bottom Talon, Bruce Wayne is a Bad Parent, Dick Grayson Needs a Hug, Dick Grayson is Bad at Feelings, Dick Grayson is fucked up, Dick Grayson-centric, Dick is straight up not having a good time, Don't like don't interact, Extremely Dubious Consent, Hallucinations, Hate Sex, Hurt Dick Grayson, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, It's Dickcest, Knifeplay, Lowkey psychotic break, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Mental Instability, Minor Scarification, Murder Fantasy, Now I am officially trash : ), POV Dick Grayson, Post-Forever Evil (Comics), Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Psychological Trauma, References to Forever Evil (Comics), References to Last Laugh, Spyral (DCU), Survivor Guilt, Talon's having a ball tho, Top Dick Grayson, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Unsafe Gunplay, Victim Blaming, and would totally have hate sex with his double because he hates himself, but in my defense, this is fucked up
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-04
Updated: 2020-09-04
Packaged: 2021-03-06 23:28:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,233
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26277175
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RUNNFROMTHEAK/pseuds/lostandlonelybirds
Summary: “That’s the spirit,” Talon purrs, pushing up against Dick so he can feel the other’s desire. “Daddy offer is still on the table, Agent. Always wanted to go fuck myself.”Talon’s smirk is incendiary, like a match to a trail of gasoline trailed through Dick’s veins. He’s tried being good. He’s tried to do the right thing. He’d died trying. He’d fought Bruce trying to be enough for everyone.“You let them capture you. You let them torture you…”He’s nothing but a weapon, after all. Weapons aren’t supposed to break. Weapons aren’t supposed to be weak.
Relationships: Dick Grayson/Dick Grayson, Dick Grayson/Earth-3 Richard Grayson | Talon
Series: Dick Rare Pair Challenge 2020 [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1834162
Comments: 26
Kudos: 83
Collections: Dick Grayson Rare Pair Challenge





	you could say that i'm sick on the inside (bet you don't know i like it that way)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [macabrekawaii](https://archiveofourown.org/users/macabrekawaii/gifts).



> RIP to my fandom innocence I suppose XD
> 
> Shoutout to rat pack for fueling this dumpster fire in the first place, and kudos to Mx for cheering this thing on.  
> You guys are the best : )

“So,” Talon drawls, twirling one of his sharp daggers in hand lazily. “You’re me.”

Dick glares at him, gun aimed at his forehead. Talon doesn’t seem too concerned about that, lounging in Dick’s desk-chair with his feet kicked up. Powerful, every micro-movement Dick reads off the guy screams. Danger doesn’t need to be implied, the smirk and blades do it for Talon.

“How the hell did you get in here?”

Talon shrugs, watching the blade flash as it spins between his fingers. Dick can’t get a true read of him. Every movement seems choreographed; smooth and sharp and intentional. His face is a mask even with his gold eyes exposed, like everything Dick sees is what Talon wants him to see, like nothing is how it seems.

“Magic, I’d assume.” He says unconcernedly, as though this conversation and Dick are boring him. “Possibly technology if Ultraman finally got the balls to move against Owlman. That’s doubtful, though, he’s too obsessed with his kryptonite fumes to see anything clearly. Why don’t you ask yourself that question, me?”

A rush of understanding fills Dick, leaving him numb. They’d come through a portal in a surge of energy, faces familiar and faces changed. He’d gone to secure Arkham, and they’d secured him instead. Ultraman for Superman, Superwoman for Wonder Woman, and Owlman for Batman. Even Alfred had been there, as a murderous traitor with the loyalty of a mercenary, and content to watch Lois Lane’s twisted doppelgänger torture Dick until he’d screamed.

He'd lost everything, that day. His identity. His name. His hope. His life.

“ _We’ll **hunt down** and **destroy** everything this Richard Grayson cares about. All who would **oppose us** , you risk not **your** lives, but the lives of those you cherish. Your **family, friends,** and **neighbors** will **die** while you watch.”_

There had been the threats from a man wearing Uncle Clark’s face, lasso of submission wrapped tight around his throat as Lois laughed. There had been a masked removed, an audience of familiar faces pale as they stared up at him.

_(“They’re my **family** , Bruce. If I’m dead, if they **think** that I’m dead… After **Damian**?!… They’re family! **My** family! I can’t do it to them…I just can’t. I’m **alive** , Bruce. I’M **ALIVE**!”)_

There had been Owlman’s fixation on him, lingering and sharp in his attentions, claws trailing across Dick’s chest in a way he knows too well. There had been Alfred, cruel and cold in his efficiency. There had been Victor, nicknamed Grid with the crucifix he called a Murder Machine ready to have its victim.

“ _They’re **hunting** masked heroes. They want our **identities**. Our **secrets**. Who we **love** , who we **hate** …They’re looking for who we really are, Dick. Who we have to pretend to be. We won’t let them do it. You **can’t** let them do it…”_

There had been the bomb, linked to his heart, and Lex Luthor’s hand tight around his mouth as the pill forced its way down. He died; this he knows. He came back; this he doesn’t.

_(“How can you ask me to do this? How can you do this to **me**? After **everything** , how can you put **this** on me?”)_

Bruce’s fists had been his greeting back into life, his words as cold and calculated as Grid’s Murder Machine, as hurtful as Alfred’s indifference (even if it hadn’t been _his_ Alfred).

“ _But what about you? Are you **them** or are you **me**? After the Crime Syndicate captured you, tortured you, **killed** you – tell me, Dick, my boy, after all of this – will you **give up**? Will you give **in**?”_

To live, he’d had to die. To keep everyone safe, he’d had to stay that way. Stay dead. Stay cold. Stay alone. (He’s not built to be alone).

_(“I’M NOT YOUR **BOY**!”)_

He’s not Dick Grayson anymore, after all. He’s not Nightwing or Batman. He’s not Robin. He’s nothing. Agent 37. An expendable soldier, in a different kind of war.

And Talon…Talon had been the him the Crime Syndicate had measured him against. Lethal, they’d said. Beautiful, their expressions told him. Dangerous. Deadly. Uncontrollable.

‘ _Everything you aren’t,’_ the cowardly Power Ring had tried to sneer at him, and Alfred’s curled lip had told him what his thoughts were. ‘ _He’s not our Master Dick, Master Thomas.’_

Not enough for Bruce. Not enough for alternate, evil, murder-y, older-brother Batman. Not enough for Babs, or Kori, or _anyone ever_. But Talon had been everything Dick could never be. Talon had been confident. Talon had been _more_ than enough for Owlman. Talon hadn’t been weak.

Talon hadn’t failed the world. Talon’s death hadn’t been his own fault.

He hadn’t even died, apparently, because his golden eyes are narrowed on Dick, analyzing his every facial tick the same way Dick’s examining him. His smirk is still present, cocky and infuriating in the fact that Dick knows he has every right to be smug. Which leaves another key difference: Talon _hadn’t_ died. Dick had.

“You’re supposed to be dead,” is what Dick manages to choke out, shoving down any feelings the memories evoked. He can’t afford to lose composure, not when he knows so little about what his doppelgänger is here for, what he could possibly want. “Thomas Wayne told me you died.”

Talon stands from the chair, sheathing the dagger on the belts crisscrossed across his chest. The suit seems like a cross between Discowing and the talon suits from the Court of Owls, all the lethality and clean lines of the Court’s uniforms but hints of color and flare from Dick’s own taste. It’s hot, he’s not going to lie. And the suit’s tight enough that he can see what everyone means when they say his ass is legendary. Tighter even than his Nightwing suits. Misdirection and seduction seem to be evil-him’s M.O. especially with the knowing gleam in Talon’s eyes as Dick’s gaze wanders.

“He would, limp-dicked bastard. I got bored, told the Crime Syndicate where to stick it, and jumped into bed with a few dozen people Thommy-dearest told me not to. Of course, Ultraman couldn’t take the blow to his ego when his wife is already blowing his BFF. Maybe I _am_ dead, I wouldn’t know, would I?”

“What are you doing here?”

Talon smirks, head cocked as he takes Dick in. The gun feels damning in his hand, heavy and more like a murder weapon than an escrima stick would. This is someone who kills. This is someone who can take him. He might have to use the gun, and he doesn’t want to think of where he’ll aim on himself.

There’s a low-simmering anger at the carefree look of Talon, after all. Jealousy, curiosity, and plain hatred make an ugly mix in Dick’s chest. That self-flagellating constant stream of ‘ _why me?’_ locked in loop in the back of Dick’s mind hates the sight of Talon, the him he’d been taunted with in one of the lowest moments of Dick’s life, because why _him_? Why not Dick?

Why is it that everyone else, even his evil twin, is allowed to live and be free when he’s left to die and burdened with the lives of everyone he cares about?

It’s not fair. It’s _never_ fucking fair.

“Someone’s off-balance,” Talon sings, sliding towards Dick with purpose in his movements. He moves like air, and every sway of his hips reminds Dick of what exactly he’s up against. A killer. A murderer. Every bad, wrong thing Dick has ever dreamed of doing manifested as a person. “Did you piss off your Daddy too? Thomas liked me disobedient, you know? So long as I bent over for him frequently enough and knew who _really_ ran the show, he liked my smart mouth around his cock. Did you fuck the wrong enemy, spy-me? Did this Thommy get bored?”

“Fuck you,” he spits, feeling disgust coil in his gut.

Talon’s smirk is a warning in and of itself, wide as he leans forward to press into the tip of Dick’s gun like it can’t kill him. He wets his smirking mouth seductively, passing across the tip of the gun like it’s a lollipop.

“Why don’t you? Maybe you’ll get some of my competency if you do. Need to call me Daddy? I got my Thomas impression down-pat.”

“That’s…”

Talon schools his features into a Batglare Bruce would be jealous of.

“There’s no time for games, Richard. You need to focus more. Perhaps a proper… _punishment_ will persuade you.”

“I’m not having sex with you.”

Talon rolls his eyes.

“Ugh, are you always annoyingly uptight? Thomas didn’t fuck that out of you?”

“ _Bruce_ did no such thing. He’s like my _dad_.”

Talon smirks.

“Don’t you know fathers are the best at fucking you over?”

This him is so _wrong_ on so many levels. A whole new level of fucked up even _Jason_ never quite reached.

“You’re so messed up.”

“What?” Talon raises an unimpressed brow, finger tracing the barrel of the gun as their eyes connect. “You telling me you’re not? Puh- _lease_. You’re fucked up too, you just don’t _show it_. Perfect son, I’m guessing? The one everyone relies on? The one who’s always there when someone needs you?”

Talon’s fingers curl around the barrel suggestively, stroking it and sending Dick’s tightening pants a knowing look.

“That used to be me, before I realized how _boring_ it is to be all martyr-y. Getting fucked over is no fun if you can’t even get an orgasm out of it. I mean, have you _seen_ Clark’s dick? He may be an uptight asshole but hate sex with him is better than Thommy-boy at his best _or_ worst. The fact that he can kill ya if he squeezes too hard adds an extra edge, and fuck if the man isn’t into pain-play.”

Talon’s lips come around the barrel eagerly, dragging his teeth along the barrel so Dick can _hear_ the scratch. It shouldn’t be arousing. It should be _anything_ but arousing. Yet…

One pointed claw drags down the front of his uniform, and Dick can feel the cool metal through it, can feel it sting his skin teasingly. God, he hates himself for this. He hates Talon for existing, hates himself for dying. He hates the world for killing his family and friends, and he hates the mirror for being a constant reminder of his failures. He’s burning with it, and when Talon’s claws squeeze on his groin hard enough to make him groan, he pushes the gun forward. Talon bobs on it, gagging for a second in a way that fills Dick with a sick sort of pleasure. He wants to paint his reflection red, wants to wrap his hands around that throat until his double stops _smirking_. Dick wants to hurt him, wants to _consume him_ , and that’s a dangerous thing.

“That’s the _spirit_ ,” Talon purrs, licking his lips and pushing the gun aside. “Want me to call you daddy so you can pretend I’m not you? Do you want to _hurt_ me like you can’t hurt yourself?”

“Shut up,” Dick snarls, grabbing Talon by the front of his suit and tugging him close. “Just shut the fuck up.”

They’re nose to nose at this point, and Talon’s pliant in Dick’s hands, still so smug.

“Make me.”

Dick wraps his hands around Talon’s throat and squeezes, tightening his grip as Talon’s smirk only widens.

“ _Someone_ gets foreplay. Tighter, handsome, before I get bored.”

Something in Dick burns. Something in him whispers and beckons to squeeze _harder,_ to hurt Talon _more_. He’s dead, after all. Bruce can’t hate him for hurting, for being less than perfect, when faced with something like this. No one can blame him for breaking when he’s in an environment designed to break him. A place where he’s alone, shrouded in streams of grey grey _grey_ and being righteous means losing reputation. A place where being against killing makes you a laughingstock, a place where he’s a number and not a name and he has no one but himself. Dick Grayson is dead, and he’s just the monster wearing his face. This is his punishment.

“That’s the _spirit_ ,” Talon purrs, pushing up against Dick so he can feel the other’s desire. “Daddy offer is still on the table, Agent. Always wanted to go fuck myself.”

Talon’s smirk is incendiary, like a match to a trail of gasoline trailed through Dick’s veins. He’s tried being good. He’s tried to do the right thing. He’d _died_ trying. He’d fought Bruce trying to be enough for everyone.

_“You let them capture you. You let them torture you…”_

He’s nothing but a weapon, after all. Weapons aren’t supposed to break. Weapons aren’t supposed to be weak. Weapons aren’t supposed to—

“Fuck _you_ ,” he snarls, and tackles his evil doppelgänger to the floor.

They roll on the floor, grappling for control, because Dick has the strength on Talon, but Talon’s fucking _fast_ , countering moves as Dick thinks them, anticipating his every twitch and thought. He feels outclassed, and that only makes him angrier. He feels so _angry_ , because he’s here, and he’s alone, and the first person to touch him in weeks is a twisted reflection that wants to fuck him.

It changes faster than Dick can track too. Hands like his shredding his clothes with quick swipes of lethally sharp claws. An arm at his throat, thighs tight around him, pinning him. Plump lips, glossy and pristine, biting down on his own, chapped and rough. He tastes blood in his mouth, and he can’t tell if it’s his or Talon’s or _both_ or neither, because this all feels like some fucked up dream, some twisted nightmare combo of sex pollen and fear toxin…

Or maybe his head has just reached this point of fucked up.

He pulls away from Talon and lets his fist kiss that perfect mouth, feeling the scrape of teeth on skin and the blood spattering his knuckles delightfully. Talon retaliates with a knife to his shoulder, dragging lines of biting steel on his bared skin, little drops of red blooming where the lethal edge teases. One quick slash and it’s a ‘ _T’_ so similar to the ‘ _S_ ’ brand on his hip that that ugly thing in his chest flares up. It’s another fucking mark, another thing left on his skin against his will, another mark someone else put on him that he’s never wanted.

Some form of primal fury fills him, some form of fucking _rage_ he hasn’t let loose since he beat the Joker to death is building and building and _building_ because he’s so _sick_ of being everyone else’s canvas and punching bag and therapist and _everything_. He’s so _sick_ of being taken and ripped apart and never put back together by anyone but himself. He’s so _sick_ of it. Or maybe he’s just _sick_ , because he wants to hurt this him. He wants to mark him the way he’s always being marked. He wants to make it permanent. He wants to fuck himself up the way everyone always fucks _him_ up.

No more wandering hands. No more ashes and fucking laughter and brands and cinnamon perfume on a blood-soaked rooftop in the rain. No more _giving_ and _breaking_.

He’s done being broken. Want. Take. _Have_.

Dick’s had enough.

He bites into Talon’s neck until he breaks skin, tasting blood on his tongue and spitting it out next to him as Talon laughs. He shoves Talon hard enough to knock him off, sprawled on his back and smirking knowingly as Dick straddles him, as Dick takes the blade coated in his blood and rips the suit off piece by intricate piece. The bare skin against his feels corrosive, like acid, eating at every ounce of restraint Dick’s ever prided himself on having, every second thought and moment of clarity trying to cut through the red haze he breathes, tastes, sees, _feels_. His gun’s too far, so he uses the blade instead. He cuts his name across that silver-sewn canvas of golden skin. He marks Talon the way Talon had meant to mark him.

It's a signature. A sign. He can fuck himself up if he wants to. He can hurt himself like everyone else hurts him.

“Can ya prep me, Agent? Need some help with it?”

Dick growls, low in his throat.

“Shut up,” he snaps. “Just _shut up_.”

He flips Talon over and doesn’t bother with too much prep. Some spit, a tiny dollop of lube. Starts with two fingers (because he _knows_ how flexible he is), scissoring Talon open half-assed because he _hopes_ this will hurt the evil version of himself. He wants to feel the pain. He wants to put this ugliness in his chest on someone else. _Anyone_ else.

So he slams in, and Talon keens, gasping, panting in the most over the top way he can as Dick fucks himself open. The sound of Dick’s balls slapping against bare skin should be wrong, fucking himself _should_ be wrong, but it feels so right that he doesn’t give a shit. He’s been alone too long to give a shit.

He raps his fingers around Talon’s throat, squeezing just enough to cut off some of that stupid chatter, just enough for Talon’s eyes to flash gold as he peeks at Dick. He’s matching the pace, shoulders shaking, blood dripping from the ugly wound spelling out _Robin_ …

“ _Harder_ ,” he demands as Dick bites down on his shoulder. “ _Faster_.”

Dick pulls out and slams back in furiously, thrusting deep enough for Talon to shudder, a whine the only sound to leave him. The slick slide of sweat-sheened skin against his is comforting, _familiar_ , and if he closes his eyes, he can pretend it’s someone else. _Anyone_ else really.

Someone normal. Someone not fucked up.

“’m close,” Talon purrs, panting just slightly.

Dick doesn’t know if he’s close. He doesn’t care. This isn’t about arousal or desire. It’s not that simple.

Dick trails the blade along Talon’s throat, fucking into his “perfect” ass with a hatred he didn’t know he possessed. He wants to see red. He wants to paint everything red. He wants to hurt Talon. He wants to _break_ Talon, the same way he’d broken Joker.

Talon chokes as Dick’s fingers tighten just a bit too much, as he comes with another whine and the blade slips across his neck like a letter opener on an envelope. He fucks Talon through it, feeling the little droplets of blood trail past his fingertips, and Talon still has that godforsaken smirk on his stupid mouth.

“I fucking _hate you_ ,” Dick snarls, tightly wound and ugly as Talon’s inner muscles spasm around his cock. “I _hate you_.”

Talon smirks, eyes all gold. His skin pales, blue veins more prominent than before and mouth bloodier than Dick had noticed. He’s a weapon. All sharp edges and precise lethality Thomas Wayne had trained and raised and cultivated by hand. He’s a weapon, and Dick’s a weapon too. He’s a weapon taken from tragedy and sharpened by circumstances. He’s a weapon who knows how to take down the Justice League, trained to be whoever Batman needs him to be.

“Is it really _me_ you hate?”

*

When Dick blinks, he’s shirtless and in his suit pants, comm in hand and heart palpitating painfully.

“Bruce—Mr. Malone. This is—Please… ** _Please_ —**Can I come home?”

The silence is damning.

**Author's Note:**

> thoughts, even negative, are accepted. I will not go to church, but I will repent for the moment.


End file.
